When Did We Become Old Men?
by Inkblot9
Summary: It has been some months since the Stan o' War II set sail from the Oregon coast. In that time, Stanley and Stanford Pines, twin brothers and partners in crime, have encountered everything from great sea serpents to lost island civilizations. One simple dreary winter morning might seem like nothing special, but this lull in their journey has fallen on a very important date indeed.
Over the years, Stanford Pines had grown accustomed to rising with the sun. It began when he was a young boy, with the firm principle that the sooner he woke, the sooner he could return to his array of ongoing projects. The concept never left him, and as he grew older, a number of other factors piled on to his hard-on mental routine. His college courses would be the least of the exertions on his schedule. They were followed by all manner of other troubles—only a select few borne of the natural Earth he walked on.

He had seen things that could—and _had_ —driven less-hardened men to sheer madness. Ford figured he was lucky that all he had to deal with in comparison was a lack of sleep. At least, that was what he told himself—perhaps to keep himself from falling off the edge of reality and sharing a similar fate to his dear colleague.

But fall from the edge he had, and the thirty years he spent on the other side only reinforced his growing paranoia. He never knew what he would encounter next in the long chain of alternate realities he traversed. For the first time in his life, that was a source of unbridled fear rather than childlike eagerness. Though most dimensions he entered bore nothing close to a human system of time, and the unfamiliar skies might bear as many as eight and a half suns or barely any light at all, Ford's internal clock was ticking quicker than ever. Anxiety and nightmares took the place of curiosity and excitement, pummeling his preexisting patterns even harder into his exhausted mind.

So it was, then, that on this peaceful, if chilly, morning at sea, Stanford blinked away sleep just before dawn. Inability to discern the position of the sunrise through the pelting sleet on the cabin window meant next to nothing. He knew that he had to have been about ten years old the last time he had risen any later. A squint at his wristwatch confirmed the notion.

" _Old habits die hard,_ " the aged scientist quoted to himself. He had never considered himself much of a fan of the human race's trite clichés, but sometimes even he had to admit that certain phrases were overstated for a reason.

Ford brought one six-fingered hand to his face to rub the latent remains of senseless dreams out of his eyes. The major difference between this particular morning and mornings of decades past was that there was no pressing disaster to attend to. A quiet moment to himself before the day's work commenced: that was a luxury that he had long since assumed was no longer his to claim.

He stretched himself out on his bunk, unclenching his taut muscles, and began to mentally guide himself through the events of the past few months. This was a new practice of his: a far more refreshing one than, say, the recklessness that a certain demon had swayed him into, or the desperate survivalism he had practiced beyond the Portal. It was a grounding technique, one that he had begun with his brother after the catastrophic memory wipe that could have killed him.

Ah, yes…his brother. No doubt Stanley was still slumbering in the bunk below, even if his usual gravelly snore was absent at the moment. Another echo from their childhood, that Ford's twin had always preferred the lower bed, and that he would never admit it had anything to do with a fear of heights. Moreover, Stanley was still just as prone to snoozing for as long as he could get away with and then some. He never would have made it to school on time back in the day, had he not shared a bedroom with his more proactive sibling.

Incredible, that Ford could now dwell on the subject of his twin with fondness rather than resentment. One single summer had repaired more in both brothers' lives than the forty previous years combined. Others might call it a miracle, but to Ford's perspective, it was something far more extraordinary. To him, a _miracle_ would imply a single moment of pity from a heavenly hand he still wasn't certain he believed in. No, what had happened last summer had come from the unconditional strength and heart of _people_ , humans, mere mortals such as himself. It had stretched far beyond the ten prophesied members of Cipher's Zodiac. It had touched the entire populace of that peculiar little town deep in the Oregon woods. Whether it was for the safety of their home, for the lives of their loved ones, or for the sheer thrill of battling monsters from another dimension, together they had done the impossible.

And Stanley Pines, the man who had believed for sixty-odd years that he would never amount to anything more than the "dumber twin", had been at the helm.

So it went, and so here they were, both of them, finally living out the exalted dreams of their youth. True, this new _Stan o' War_ barely resembled the battered sailboat they had discovered on the Jersey shore all those years ago. But the chances were slim to none that the old thing had survived, let alone in anything close to seaworthy condition. So when Dan Corduroy had less-than-subtly hinted that a friend of a friend was looking to let go of a decent trawler—with a potential discount for "town heroes"—how could they refuse? The ever-gracious Fiddleford McGucket, bless his soul, had leapt to their assistance in a new paint job for the vessel and the technological reworking necessary for their mission. Soos and Wendy had pitched in as well, when they had time off from schoolwork or tours at the Mystery Shack.

What a difference a few friends made. Their progress shot far ahead of their original conceived timeline; by the end of September, they were ready to raise anchor.

Ford had been positively floored by just how many people came to see them off. Stan had been surprised as well, of course, but he had naturally soaked up the attention like the seasoned performer he was. Meanwhile, Ford had felt just as aloof and out of place as he had since first returning to his home dimension.

Or…no, not quite. The awkwardness was there, but for opposite reasons. On that day Stanford had realized that he could now recognize faces in the crowd of townspeople and put them to names. On that day both elder Pineses were hailed like Olympians—again! That day had been another reminder for the pair of outcasts that they were no longer alone. After the cataclysm that was Weirdmageddon, all of Gravity Falls had transformed from complete strangers to some sort of a _family_.

Now months had passed since then. Setting sail from Oregon rather than somewhere on the East Coast meant that it would take longer to reach the source of the anomalies that Ford had detected at the end of summer, but their options had been limited. Ford had thought it wise that they opt against attempting a madcap cross-country road trip, towing not only their boat but also the extensive criminal record that was now a shared responsibility. Stanley had immediately agreed. It was a welcome wonder to see him showing some insight on such a matter.

They were far from bored on their excursion. The open ocean was full of mysteries, and the Pines family was nothing if not a magnet for such things. The twins were graced with many a wild encounter, from krakens and kelpies to hydra and hippocampi. Ford, naturally, took charge of documenting their discoveries. Stanley was more keen on left-hooking the beasts in the eye when they dared inch too close to the boat.

Add to that any number of haunted pubs and freak riptides, and it would appear that the burgeoning seafarers had their work cut out for them. But not even half a year prior, the brothers had overpowered a literal apocalypse and reforged their relationship in the process. Compared to all they had been through already, this was, well…smooth sailing.

When or if they made it to that specific pinpoint in the Arctic Circle had become significantly less of a concern. After all, the original ideal "adventure of a lifetime" had nothing to do with scientific advances or saving the world. "Beaches, babes, and international treasure-hunting," was all Stanley had proclaimed over and over. And now it was finally time to revisit that dream. What they needed now was time for fun, for excitement, for getting out of their own heads for a while and enjoying the life they had left. Only one deadline truly mattered now. They had an important promise to fulfill: ensuring that they were back to Gravity Falls— _home_ —before next summer slipped away from them.

Ford shook his head. What had he become? His old fears and new hopes were blurring and melding together in his mind. Just now he had been rambling on—albeit silently—like any grizzled, sentimental codger. And yet there had been many a day out here that he could pretend he was back to a jaunty boy of sixteen…

…if it were not so drastically apparent that he and Stan had fully morphed into a pair of grumbly, grey-haired great-uncles.

At that thought, Ford glanced to the opposite side of the cabin. Even in his blurry, sleepy vision, he knew exactly what the space contained. The wall was plastered with papers, postcards and Post-Its. Maps littered with tacks and string plotted the course of their journey. Scrawled notes from each brother to the other bore lighthearted jabs on organization and grammar. Most importantly, heartfelt letters and drawings reminded them of what would be waiting for them back on land when they returned. At the forefront of it all hung a framed photograph of their niece and nephew on their first day back at school.

Dear Dipper and Mabel had wasted no time in introducing their Grunkles to the wonders of Internet communication. They stressed and overstressed the importance of keeping in touch, claiming that less than a single year was still far too long to go without regular conversation with their favorite relatives.

As usual, it was near impossible to argue with them. In fact, Ford and Stan were simultaneously thanking and praying to whatever fates were at play that these kids would never have to go through much worse when it came to family.

For all the time the elder twins had spent lonesome and stubborn, they couldn't help but love the curious children who had so suddenly plunged into their lives. The two of them had captured their great-uncles' hearts within days of acquaintance, with no intention of letting go anytime soon. Who would have thought that a pair of precocious thirteen-year-olds was what it took to pull some beleaguered old men out of their dark, bitter holes and back into the light? And if they ever lost their way again, there would be a trail of glitter and pine needles waiting to guide them home.

So the week before the younger twins returned to their parents in California was dedicated in part to the forging of the electronic link between land and sea. A shiny new laptop was dropped off at the Shack, courtesy again of McGucket. Dipper set to work on an email account, while Mabel rapidly quizzed her uncles from handmade flash cards depicting emoticons and shorthand slang. The air in the rickety house again filled with the sunshine and good humor that it had been missing for so long.

Perhaps that was what that ancient prophecy had meant all along. A powerful force linking people so different in a bond strong enough to dispel the most chaotic and sinister of evils.

A week and a day after the last bus of the summer left Gravity Falls, Stanley and Stanford opened their inbox to find the very picture that now hung in their cabin. The typed message read "Wish us luck!", punctuated with an array of hearts and smiley faces.

Wish them luck they did, every day and every night, every time they happened to cast a gaze to the likeness of those bright, grinning faces.

Ford smiled, in spite of himself and every pain he had ever felt. He wrapped his intellectual mind around all that had happened, all that he and his family had endured, and concluded most logically that he—that _all_ of them—did in fact deserve to smile.

It was then that he realized he ought to get out of bed before the whole morning passed him by. The anomaly readings and other dangers in this area were low, true. The _Stan o' War II_ should be able to operate smoothly on the automatic captain system designed by Fiddleford and himself for roughly another two weeks' time, barring any stray serpents or sirens. Still, that left preparing breakfast, checking for emails, giving the maps a looking-over, routine maintenance, updating the ship's log, and, of course, waking Stanley, all to take care of before noon. No time to lollygag!

Ford took one more stretch, careful to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling as he had many times as a child. He chose to ignore the cracking of his joints that unmistakably indicated his aging.

He descended the rungs jutting from the right wall, moving slowly and carefully. His maneuvers were tentative, with his sight impeded until he fumbled for his glasses, carefully folded on the nearby nightstand.

Lord, how old _was_ he?

He sighed, blinking his eyes into focus once his spectacles were properly settled on his face. No sense in fighting the inevitable. He and Stanley were—

Wait a minute.

Stanley. _Glasses_ —

Ford turned his head back to the bedside table. Sure enough, his brother's squarer lenses were absent from the usual spot. Whipping around to face the bunks, he found both to be empty. Stanley's sheets were tousled and hanging lopsidedly, indicating he had gotten out of bed in a hurry.

Stanford cursed himself under his breath for being so inattentive. How had he fallen into such security that mere reminiscence and the sound of rainfall could subdue his instincts? Was it really a good thing that he was able to rest, or was he just creating more trouble, _yet again_ —

"No, no," the scientist mumbled quietly. "Calm down, calm down…"

He reasoned with himself slowly. As deep a slumber that he seemed to have fallen into the previous night, surely he would have awoken at any signal of true danger. He was all but physically programmed that way now. And even though Stan tended to be the later riser, this wouldn't be the first morning that he went up on deck alone, whether to clear his head or cast a line. Whatever he was doing, it was highly unlikely to be calamitous.

Ford reminded himself that he ought to have a little more faith in his twin. He had handled himself remarkably well in his years of illness and homelessness, for one thing. And it had been Stanley who had thrown the final punch to _Bill goddamn Cipher._

Even in the dank Arctic weather, Stan could handle himself. First things first, Ford rationalized.

 _…Coffee._

* * *

It took little time for Ford to clothe himself in his favorite turtleneck and slacks, as well as a parka for the cold. He stumbled to the door separating the sleeping cabin and the kitchenette and pushed the creaking wood open, his face contorting in a yawn as he did so. Coffee. Mmm, warm, black, invigorating coffee. He could almost smell it…

He felt for the light switch, then winced as brightness engulfed the room. The past few days had been especially cold and dark. It would simply take him a few moments to adjust to the contrast. Somehow, it seemed like there was more glare than normal today, even as he shielded his bleary eyes with one hand…

" _SURPRISE, POINDEXTER!_ "

At the sudden shock, Ford's body reacted before his mind. He took a stride backwards, feeling down his side for the gun he no longer perpetually carried. When that came to naught, he instead readied himself into a defensive position. He stood on edge, heart pounding, fully prepared to strike at anything that dared intrude on his peace. Lord knew he had done it many times before.

A hand on his shoulder made Ford flinch, but it carried with it about the only voice that could pull him out of such a state.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, hey, bro! It's me, Ford. It's me! Calm down, okay? It's just me."

Ford took a ragged breath and allowed himself to look the other person in the eye.

Stanley Pines it was. His companion. His brother. His twin. His family.

He was safe. _They_ were safe.

"For goodness' sake, Stanley, what on earth was that for? You know I'm far from keen on _surprises_ anymore." Ford blinked and took in the scene around him as his brother babbled a reply.

"Yeah, I know, I guess I…didn't really think that one through. Heh…But I had t'do _something_ , y'know?"

Do _something_ he had: the ship kitchen had transformed into a floating one-stop party store. Multicolored paper streamers hung from the ceiling. Foil cutouts of stars and anchors dotted the walls. Inflated balloons—sans helium, thankfully—were scattered on the shelves and the floor. To top it all off, fresh coffee in Ford's Periodic Table mug was waiting for him on the counter. He spluttered.

Unaware of his brother's confusion, Stan continued to ramble. "Maybe it's a bit much, I dunno. Guess I've been taking one too many cues from our little gremlins lately. But hey, who says a couple'a old men aren't allowed to have some guiltless fun, huh? And, uh, well…there may or may not be beer and cigars in the cabinet if you wanna drop the 'guiltless' part later. No rush, though. We've got all day…"

"Stanley!" Ford exclaimed, agitated. "What _is_ all this? Where did it all _come_ from?"

"Heh, you don't wanna know." Stan smirked. "Woulda gotten cake, too, but I couldn't remember if you still liked devil's food or not, and I was in a bit of a hurry, so…"

"Oh, for crying out loud…So help me, _dear_ brother of mine, will you _please_ explain yourself?!"

Stan's mouth clamped shut. His giddy expression shifted to something else. What was it? Shame? Embarrassment? Regret? Emotions had never been easy for Ford to read, even—or especially—on the man who shared his face.

Stanley took a sideways glance across the room. His eyes fell on the swimsuit model wall calendar that Ford had been trying to _avoid_ looking at. Perhaps if he had paid it any attention, he would have noticed that the square marking Friday, February fifteenth had been circled in thick red marker. That must be today, then; had they really been at sea that long already? February fifteenth. February fifteenth…

The scientist's eyes grew wide. The answer dawned on him at the same moment that his brother chose to speak it aloud:

"…It's our birthday, Stanford."

Ford's jaw hung open. It appeared that after thirty years spent trekking alternate dimensions, the unholy nonsense that was Weirdmageddon, and now these past months spent miles away from land, the standard measurement of Earth time had become an alien concept. The last time Ford could remember explicitly keeping track of the days was in the Journals, and even that had gone awry once Bill had control of his mind.

"I…I'm surprised _you_ remembered," Ford stammered, attempting to regain some semblance of composure.

"Heh, you know what? So am I." Stan laughed, a hint of bitterness tainting his tone. "But the fact is, for all those years, I couldn't _forget_. The last birthday we had together was our eighteenth. Even then we were drifting away from each other. Few months later I was on my own. Never got used to it. And every time fifteenth of February rolled around, I'd watch the snow through my car window and think about the kids we used to be. About how we never thought that _this_ was what growing up was gonna mean for us."

Guilt pulsed through Ford's veins. He opened his mouth again to attempt a reply. Stan stopped him. He held up one hand, his face growing solemn.

"It was just a couple weeks before our thirty-second that the…that the whole _Portal_ thing happened. There I was, thinkin' that maybe we could finally have something again. So much for that." Another sardonic chuckle escaped his lips. "After that, every birthday was just a reminder that I'd lost you for another year. But I never stopped tryin'. And I never, ever forgot. I just…I couldn't."

"S-Stanley, I—"

"Hey." Stan gave his brother a small smile, this one clearly genuine. "I made ya coffee, Sixer. Straight black, just how ya like it, you weirdo. You should probably grab it before it gets cold…"

Ford simply nodded; no words were coming to him at the moment. He meandered over to where the drink sat, careful to avoid crushing a stray balloon.

"'Cause, I mean, I don't do this kinda stuff often," Stan went on, with his usual lighthearted snark. "Better appreciate it while it's there."

Six fingers tensed around the handle of the steaming mug, six knuckles blanching to white.

Stanley was joking. He was _always_ joking.

Stanford was not.

"You're right," Ford said quietly. He lifted the coffee to his lips and took a long swallow. Then he turned around, still gripping his cup, the warmth welcome in his chilled, shaking hands.

"You're right, Stanley," he repeated. "I should appreciate this…all of this. I should appreciate _you_. And I haven't. And I'm sorry."

"Ford…?"

The firstborn twin swiped at his nose and dropped his gaze. The intelligent remarks that were his usual forte were nowhere to be found.

"Hey, c'mon, talk to me. Let's sit down, 'kay? Standing up, it's…it's hard work, once you get to be an old galoot like us."

Light laughter drifted through the air between the two. It dissipated just as quickly. Still, Stanford took his brother's suggestion and made his way over to the modest dining table. This time, however, his thoughts were in another place and he was far less cautious about his footing. His left boot and one of the strewn balloons made contact with a hefty _bang_. Ford winced.

"Ah, jeez." Stan slapped his forehead. "That might not have been my best idea ever. Balloons on the floor, yeah, that's…that's _brilliant_ …Ah, well, it's only rubber, right?" He emphasized that statement by slamming his own foot down. Another loud _pop_ shook the room. Scraps of red and gold latex shot upwards. Ford sighed.

"Just add it to the list of 'Stan Pines and His Incredible Screw-Ups'. Ha, wouldn't _that_ make some exhibit back home! 'Bewildering blunders never before seen by human eyes!' Wonder if Soos would ever take that one up. I've done more embarrassing things for less cash before…I could—"

"Oh, for the love of—just _stop_ it, will you?"

Startled at Ford's tone, Stan's jaw clamped shut. Only for a moment, though, of course; he had to say _something_ to ease the tension. Even if he was about to mess something up again, he had to try. That was just one of the things all those empty, lonesome years had taught him.

"I—I'm just kidding around, Ford—"

"I know." Ford set his mug down on the table, then pulled out one of the pair of stools and sat. His trembling hands quickly returned to the soothing warmth of the cup and the substance it contained.

"I know you're kidding, Stanley. That's, well, that's the very problem."

Stan cocked an eyebrow, confused and concerned. He seated himself opposite his brother, though he was unable to meet his eyes.

"You're always talking about yourself like this. As if you're some kind of a joke. As if…as if you're not even worth a quick gag at the Shack. It's _ridiculous_ , Stan, it's utter _rigmarole_ , and I won't have it!" Ford's voice crescendoed as he spoke, climaxing in a shout and a bang of his fist on the table.

The younger twin blinked, clearly taken aback, but did not speak.

"L-look, Stanley. When you first brought me back home from thirty years of traipsing dimensions, I couldn't begin to comprehend why you would risk the fate of the galaxy for the off-chance of saving me. Surely I wasn't worth that. One man's life against all of reality as we know it…it made no sense to me."

Ford paused to take another gulp of his coffee. His body shook with a long, heavy breath before he continued.

"And then…then, well, it was Weirdmageddon. I saw you and the children struggling in Bill's grip, and I realized I would let myself endure that pain a thousandfold if it meant my family could be safe. Then you laid down your mind, your very essence of _being_ , for me, for the kids, for everyone we knew and beyond. I thought—I thought that I had lost you for good…and I would never have the chance to tell you that—that I—"

His voice broke. Only when Stan's hand moved across the table to drape atop his own did he find his words again.

"What kind of a brother that makes me," Ford choked out, "that I can't see my own twin for who he really is until the bloody _apocalypse_ …well, I, I don't know. But when the last of Bill's chaos left our realm, and I saw you…kneeling there in the grass, your mind an empty shell…

"When I saw you there, I finally understood. I understood why you would sacrifice so much for so long. I understood why you had done all that you did. Why you, or anyone would put one man's fate before the whole world. I understood what I should have done a long, long time ago. Stanley, I have seen all manner of bizarre universes and alternate realities. Just beyond our reach, there are infinite worlds and unlimited possibilities. But I only have _one_ twin brother. You mean the multiverse to me, and I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner. I only hope that someday you can see it too."

At last they found the strength to look up, to each take in the image of the other's face. Two pairs of bespectacled eyes, in an identical shade of chestnut brown, met each other fondly and honestly. Two stubborn, emotionally impaired old men tried in vain to hide the pricking of tears.

"C'mon, now," Stan said, giving Ford a light punch to the shoulder. "That's enough of that crap. Don't want ya to be actin' like such a sad sack on your birthday."

"We're twins, you dolt. It's your birthday just as much as mine, so the same rules apply to you." Ford leant downward and plucked a scarlet balloon from beside his chair. With a cheeky grin, he began to rub the latex bubble up and down the fuzzy wool of his sweater. When he deemed it ready, he touched it to his brother's hair, and it stuck.

"Quite the fascinating concept, static electricity," he commented with a smirk. "Wouldn't you agree, Stanley?"

"Shut up, nerd." Stan pulled the balloon from his head and batted it away. The annoyance was only a sham, of course, and this was one that Ford could see right through. There was mirth and relief twinkling just behind his glasses.

A few minutes passed quietly. Ford finished off his coffee, as Stan attempted to pat his sticking-up hair back into place. The continuing Arctic precipitation could easily be heard drumming on the windows and the decks above.

This silence was not nearly as tense as many others from the past few months had been. For that they both were thankful.

"So," Ford murmured, twiddling his fingers idly, "what happens now?"

"Heck, I dunno. We could, uh, check the email, I guess?"

"Good idea. I'll go fetch the laptop."

"Careful now. Don't smash any more balloons."

"Oh, don't worry, I shall be exceedingly careful of my great oaf feet on your _oh_ -so-refined regal floor, Your Grace."

Stan stuck out his tongue in childish sport, and Ford allowed himself to laugh again.

The natural reaction of his brain was to spew facts and figures about endorphins and chemical release into his consciousness. For a rare change of pace, he ignored them.

The proper terminology in this particular situation was more along the lines of "hey, this feels pretty darn good."

* * *

The computer was a sleek, pristine silver, but it hadn't stayed so plain for very long. It was plastered with scratch-and-sniff samples galore courtesy of Mabel, with the classic " _WHAT IS THE MYSTERY SHACK?_ " bumper sticker gracing one edge. The old strawberry-shaped emblem of Fiddleford Computermajigs was etched in the center. Stanford found himself regretting all the times he had scoffed at his old friend's notions of common personal computers. This machine was truly a marvel of technology, one he had never expected to see come to light in this dimension.

Ford flipped the laptop open and pressed a finger to the power button. Once the screen flickered to life, it took only a few nimble clicks to open the internet browser and navigate to their email provider. If there was anything in this decade that Ford had adapted to quickly, it was the modern electronics. Stan was somewhat behind "kids these days and their newfangled devices", but he was catching up well enough. Keeping contact with the family was the best possible motivation.

"Aha, here we are. Oh, look, Stanley, there's a message from Dipper and Mabel! Let's see now… _to stanowar_ _2…message sent from the-mystery-twins, 9:06 PM Pacific Standard Time…_ "

"You know you don't have to read that part, right?" Stan chortled. "Lemmee see, willya?"

"There's no body text," Ford said as he tilted the computer in his brother's direction. "It just looks like a picture of the kids…but I can't really tell what it is they're doing…" He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and squinted at the blurry image.

"Oh, it's a video, I think. See the little triangle? That's 'play', right?"

"Right, right, so it is." With two fingers on the trackpad, Ford slid the cursor across to the play button and pressed down.

The internet speed in the _Stan o' War II_ 's remote locale was less than favorable. Two hands comprised of eleven fingers drummed on the wood table as the video took its time to buffer.

Just as they were adjusting to the lull, a loud, exuberant sound of glee resounded from the laptop speaker.

" _HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_ "

Startled, Ford rapidly clicked the pause icon and lowered the speaker volume by a few notches. He caught his breath and then turned to his twin.

"How did they know it was our birthday?"

Stan shrugged. "Beats me. Those kids know a lot of things they probably shouldn't."

Ford raised an eyebrow.

"All right, all right! Jeez, where do you think I got the idea to have a freakin' birthday party in the first place?"

With a shake of his head and a smile, Ford restarted the video.

The younger Pines twins were in their house in Piedmont, recognizable from previous photos and emails. Mabel's sweater of choice coincidentally depicted a pair of balloons, one red and one yellow, on a soot grey backdrop. A matching party hat sat atop Dipper's head.

"Hi, Grunkle Stan! Hi, Grunkle Ford!" Mabel waved excitedly at the camera. "We're here to say that we hope your birthday is the best EVER!" She tossed a wad of confetti, seemingly pulled out of nowhere.

"We, uh, really miss you guys," Dipper put in. "It would be awesome if we could be there with you to hang out and stuff, but…we've got school, and you've got your anomaly research or whatever, so—"

"SO this is the next best thing we could think of to do instead! It's not quite the fifteenth over here yet, but we gotta get up _way_ early for school, and then there's time zones and junk…So we're making this video the night before to make sure it gets to you before it's too late! And by the way, we kinda-sorta-maybe told, like, _everyone_ about the big day, so…you might be seeing a few more emails come through before too long."

As if on cue, the laptop emitted a series of _ping_ s. But that kind of message was not a chore by any means, and they would all be read and replied to with care. All in good time.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Mabel gasped, then dashed out of the frame. Dipper merely shrugged; sometimes even he was no match for his sister's unpredictability.

"TA-DAA!" came a certain chipper voice a few moments later. When Mabel reentered the picture, she held a homemade cupcake in her hands. It was bundled in a tinfoil wrapper, with a thick swirl of frosting and a smothering of rainbow sprinkles. A single candle glowed in the center. She brought it closer to the camera and lifted it high, as if to make sure both of her uncles could see her dessert masterpiece in all its glory.

" _Happy birthday to you…_ "

The age-old tune began quietly, but quickly erupted wildly and passionately, as both siblings sang:

" _Happy birthday to you,_

 _Happy birthday to you,_

 _Happy birthday, dear Grunkles!_

 _HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!_ "

The elder twins laughed and applauded the recording of their beloved niblings. The beaming faces of their nephew and niece were just about the best birthday present a pair of old Grunkles could ask for. These children really were something special.

"Hey, uh, Mabel?"

"Yeah?"

Dipper glanced down at the pastry in his sister's hands. "What _is_ that cupcake for, exactly?"

Mabel put one hand on her hip. "'Cause it's a birthday, duh! Sheesh, Dipper, what kinda celebration would it be without _cake_?"

"Yeah, but…Grunkle Ford and Grunkle Stan aren't here. They're out on their boat. How are they gonna eat the cake? Or blow out the candle? Y-you know what I'm saying? Plus, I mean, that's totally not enough of a cake for both of them anyway."

"Shoot, you're right! Guess you can't really mail a Mabelcake out to the ocean or whatever. At least, not in time for tomorrow, that's for sure." The girl frowned slightly, her brow furrowing in thought.

"Aha! I know!" Mabel's eyes lit up. "All right, you old farts, get ready to make a wish, okay? One…two…"

Dipper and Mabel both leaned in towards the cake and its flickering flame. Silently, Stan and Ford wished, though not with words. It was more of a feeling, a sensation, something that could not be expressed so easily in human speech. Each in their own minds, they bore the simple, guileless desire for more things like this and times like now.

" _Three!_ " A deep inhale, and then the candle was extinguished. All four Pineses couldn't help but giggle.

"Well, uh, we probably should head to bed soon before Mom and Dad get on our tails," Dipper said. He scratched at the back of his head, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Yeah, guess so." Mabel sighed in agreement. "But what are we gonna do with the _cake_ part of the cake?"

"Um…feed it to Waddles?" Dipper suggested. "I'm not really hungry, so…"

"Perfect!" Mabel scampered off again, presumably to find her pig and do just that.

Dipper looked back at the camera. "Hope that wasn't too weird for you. But then again, we're all pretty weird, huh? That's kinda what makes us… _us_." He chuckled softly. "Seriously though, we hope you guys have an awesome day, whatever it is you end up doing. Over the weekend we can have a video chat and talk normally, if you want? We just wanted to make sure you had _something_ on your actual birthday."

"We love you! And we miss you lots!" Mabel's head reappeared, filling nearly the entire frame. "Sending lots of hugs! Have a fantabulous day! You deserve it!"

"Yeah, what she said." Dipper lightly elbowed his sister. "Talk to you later, Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford."

"Bye-bye! Email us back, okay?! Don't forget! We'll be _waaaaiting!_ "

A wave of assorted "goodbye"s and "see you soon"s from both flooded the air until the video ended.

Stan leaned backwards against the wall, unable to conceal his joy. "God," he exhaled, "I love 'em."

"So do I." Ford's smile grew wide. "It's hard not to, really."

"True that, Sixer. True that."

Yet again Stanford's mind wanted to think, to process, to analyze. He had woken up this morning not even realizing it was his birthday, and it had quickly morphed into the best one he had ever had.

The past was behind them. There would be no more cheap, dinky shared cakes from their father that simply read "STAN". There would be no more nights when the only birthday wish was to end the insufferable loneliness. For the first time, the Pines brothers were free to be who they really were, and to do it together.

What they had now…no, it wasn't perfect. Ford had never believed in perfection, and that had not changed. But he was starting to believe in love again, and that was just as good, really. Maybe even better.

"Stanley?"

"Hm?"

"How old… _are_ we?"

"Oh, God, don't make me think about it," Stan grumbled.

After mental math from one twin and some acceptance from the other, they uttered the number in unison:

" _Sixty-three._ "

"We really _are_ old," the scientist groaned.

"Happy flippin' birthday, bro." The con artist snapped his fingers into a gun shape, which he pointed sharply at his brother.

It would appear that they were far from their prime. But then, who said that their prime couldn't be right now? They were living out their childhood dream, living far more comfortably than they had in their youth. Maybe _these_ were going to be their best days. Maybe their time had come at last, even if it wasn't quite what they might have expected years ago.

And maybe it had been worth the wait.

"You know, Stanley," Ford remarked, "I _do_ , in fact, still like devil's food cake."

"Well, we'll have to get some, then. Next time we dock, or whatever."

"And we will be acquiring said cake _legally_ , yes?"

"Aw, come on, you're no fun."

"I really don't think you need to add yet another country to your criminal roster."

"Says the guy who's been banned from whole _dimensions_."

"All the more reason to not make things _worse_ , and to acquire our birthday treat within the realm of 46'\ Earth law. Adding to that, we need to make sure that all your party paraphernalia is disposed of properly, and kept out of the natural ecosystem."

"All right, all right. Sheesh. Stick-in-the-mud."

"Knucklehead."

* * *

If there were in fact any intelligent creatures roaming in those frigid waters on February fifteenth, they would have noticed a few things. Things that might be unimportant to their kind, but held a great and powerful weight to some certain others.

They would have felt the sleet and freezing rain pelting on the surface of the tide and the decks of a trawler. And they would have heard a distinctive chant, the return of a small but mighty tradition, ringing out through the frozen air:

" _PINES! PINES! PINES! PINES!_ "


End file.
